The Nightmare Before Halloween
by TammiTam
Summary: When the undead figures out a way to come to life, Dean has a problem with that … especially when the ghost chooses his little brother as a host! Limp!Sam & Overprotective!Dean abounds! This is a Round Robin from CWESS.
1. Chapter 1

This is a Round Robin story started over at CWESS (check us out!!) for our Halloween rendition of Supernatural – and why Sam doesn't like it.

Authors are: TammiTam, BlueEyedDemonLiz, Rozzy07, and Vonnie836 (appearing in that order).

When the undead figures out a way to come to life, Dean has a problem with that … especially when the ghost chooses his little brother as a host!

Now would we start a story without some Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean?

Hey, the only things we own are the spelling mistakes! Kripke, you dog, you and the CW have full rights to the boys. Just don't mind us while we play awhile.

**XXX**

**Tammi**

Dean could feel the glare of his brother, even before he looked over at him, but nothing prepared him for the hurt look that accompanied it.

"Ahhh, c'mon Sammy, it's not that bad."

"You're making me wait by the car, Dean, it is that bad."

"It's not my fault dad thinks you'd be safer."

"No, not safer, he's pissed because he thinks I messed up on that last hunt and…"

Dean sighed, a hand ran over his face before he faced his little brother – the same brother who, since he'd turned sixteen nearly six months ago had sprouted up like a weed, so much so that Dean hated to admit it, but he thought the kid might outgrow him and dad both. His mouth opened to say something, anything…. "DEAN! Hustle your ass!" ….but dad's deep growl said enough with the catering of Sam, so his brother got an apologetic look before he hurried after the mighty John Winchester, because Dean damn well knew he waited for no one.

But even as he left Sam standing there next to the Impala, he couldn't help the overwhelming feeling of guilt that had his shoulders hunching in an act that had nothing to do with the chill in the air, or the fact they were in a grave yard. Oh sure, Dean had been in them before, many a time – after all, it's hard to salt and burn something from a hundred feet away! But something about being in one just days before Halloween gave Dean the creeps.

So he shivered, though it wasn't just the heebie jeebies he was now sporting – something about leaving Sam behind when there were at least five reports of some ghost trying to _snatch _people. Well, that just didn't sit right with him.

"He's fine."

"What?"

"Sam. Now quit worrying about him."

"I just think it sucks out loud for Sam to be left behind…"

"I don't want him messing up on this hunt. The last one was bad enough! He nearly got you killed!"

Dean glanced over at his dad and just shook his head. True enough, Sam had wandered from Dean when they were hunting that werewolf, but what the great John Winchester failed to recognize was that Sam was lured away by the second one. All John saw was that Sam failed a direct order. Not that he was nearly mauled as well.

"You know it wasn't like that, dad."

"I know you were damn near werewolf chow! What if it had bitten you? What then? He gives a little, _I'm sorry, Dean_ before he has to shoot you? I mean honestly….."

But John Winchester's rant about his youngest was cut off by Sam's scream. Not one of those girly I'm scared screams, but a painful, oh shit scream.

Dean didn't even give his father a second look before he was double timing it back to the Impala. He could hear his father's bootfalls behind him, but it didn't matter, none of it mattered all that mattered was…

He skidded to a stop as he glanced to the Impala … the empty Impala.

"Sam?"

John nearly ran into him, only managing not to in a move that would have been hilarious had his little brother _not _been missing.

"Sammy?"

John's voice echoed out behind him as he finally dared to move forward. And then he was rushing in, circling the car as if Sam might be playing some sick game of hide and seek on the other side.

"Sam?!!"

"Dean!"

He looked over to his dad, and was horrified by what his father held – Sam's jacket, torn and bloodied – as if something had ripped him right out of it.

**XXX**

**Liz**

There were moments in Dean's life which he could look back on with fondness, not many of course but a decent enough handful of memories, like an old shoebox of Polaroids, which he kept stored away in his head. Reaching second base with Amanda Burton in the ninth grade, making his first sawn-off, the look in Dad's eyes when he nailed his first _fugly, big nasty_.

Finding Sam's jacket, the one size too small faded blue denim ripped and spotted with splashes of blood which were still damp and appeared more black than red in the dim glow of moonlight, was another type of Polaroid Dean kept locked away in his head. Those were the types of memories which haunted him, fed his nightmares and fueled his desire to hunt in the same way Mary's death set John's need for revenge ablaze.

"Sammy?" Dean tried shouting again and listened as his voice echoed so that it sounded like there were two of him. Both versions equally panicked and about ready to loose their lunch. He lifted his flashlight and cast the beam around. The yellow beam illuminated several crumbling granite gravestones, a group of elm trees and a mausoleum in the distance which looked big and ominous in the darkness—but no little brother. "Dad, where is he?" Dean asked as he turned back to face his father and finally let his flashlight fall so that it was hanging limply by his side.

John had run a short distance from the Impala looking for signs of a struggle, some track marks on the ground, _anything_ but he couldn't find a single blade of grass which looked as though it had been disturbed. It was as if Sam had been Houdini'ed out of the graveyard.

John heard Dean's question loud and clear but didn't have an answer, not one Dean would want to hear anyway. "We'll find him, Dean." He said firmly, putting as much strength and conviction into his words as he could muster. Right there and then John decided they wouldn't leave until they'd searched every inch of the old cemetery.

**XXX**

"You stupid bastard."

"What?"

"You've damaged him, he's bleeding."

"He put up more of a fight then I expected, darn pup. I didn't have much choice. Anyway I only cut him up a little."

"A little? He looks like he's lost a lot of blood. If he dies I will never forgive you. He was perfect and now you've damaged him…"

"Goddamit. Stop being so dramatic, he's not going to die from a few scratches."

The voices were hushed, stern. One female and one male but Sam didn't recognize either of them. He cracked his eyes open, which was difficult in itself because his eyelids felt like they were glued together.

But when he did finally manage the arduous task of opening his eyes, Sam realized that he was laid flat on his back on the cold hard surface of a metal trolley, which was terrifyingly similar to the dissection tables Sam had seen in morgues. Looking around he could see that he was in a small bare room. The only light source appeared to be from one single floor lamp which was angled so that the light was pointing down on him; it was so close that he could feel the low heat which emanated from the bulb and the light shining in his face was almost blinding.

His legs and arms were not restrained in any way but when Sam tried to sit up, he found—to his absolute horror—that he couldn't. If he concentrated hard he could roll his head from side to side but that was clearly all he could do. Sam tried and then failed to lift his arm, the same thing happened when he tried to move his leg and when he found he couldn't even so much as waggle his toes, Sam struggled to prevent himself from crying. A treacherous tear squeezed itself out of the corner of one eye and rolled down the side of his face, landed with a barely audible splash on the metal surface below him.

"Look who's awake." The woman's voice said suddenly.

Sam squinted against the lamp's dazzling light, trying in vain to see the faces of the two figures, who were standing in the shadows beyond it.

A hand reached out and touched his face lightly. A long fingernail ran the length of his cheek and Sam screwed his eyes closed, trying to jerk his head away from the unwanted contact. "I can't move." Sam whimpered. His throat was tender, painfully sore and felt like it was closing up. His words came out in short panted breaths.

"Don't fret child, the drugs we've given you will wear off soon enough." The woman finally decided to move the lamp away and slowly Sam's eyes adjusted enough so that he could see her and the man who was standing by her side.

Sam flinched when he saw the man. It was the same man who had taken him from the Impala. "No, nonononononono." Sam whispered when he saw the man was holding what looked to be a pair of sharp surgical scissors.

"Calm down, Abel here is going to stitch the mess he's made of your abdomen." The woman said and her voice was filled with kindness which seemed just plain crazy given Sam's current situation.

"Please…please let me go." Sam begged his eyes remaining fixed on Abel.

"Don't worry baby, this will all be over soon." The woman lent over him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. As she lifted her lips away, her eyes were brimming with tears. "You really are beautiful. You look so much like Peter. I knew the moment I saw you that you'd be perfect baby, perfect."

The woman retreated then, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and Abel stepped forward. Sam's breathing grew fast as Abel drove a needle into the skin of his belly and the horrendous sensation of unbearable pain surged forward to engulf him before he sank into darkness.

**XXX**

**Roz**

It was the sour smell of his own vomit that roused him from his sweat drenched stupor. Although heavy limbed, the paralysis of earlier was thankfully gone, and he was able to roll onto his other side and away from the stench assaulting his senses.

A gasp escaped, the movement not welcomed by his abused abdomen. Pressing a hand over the wounds he sucked in long breaths, waiting for the pain to pass. He counted back in his head from a hundred to thirty before it lessened to just a burning throb.

Closing his eyes Sam would have willingly traded his soul for a glass of water to take the thirst away and the acidic taste burning the back of his throat. A couple of Vicodin would have been welcome too.

Sam took in the silence of room and cautiously lifted his head to find it empty of his captors, and he sagged back on the metal bed in relief. He didn't really feel up to going round two with the crazy woman and the giant of man she had called Abel.

Disjointedly, like an ill remembered dream, snatches of what had happened were slowly filtering back in all its glory. How his dad had left him behind. No doubt thinking that not even he, number one screw up son, could mess up such a simple task as waiting by the impala.

'Yeah, right,' thought Sam sourly to himself, 'way to make him proud of you, getting taken out of the game just minutes after being left alone.'

Being raised and trained by John Winchester, big bad ass demon hunter, he knew he would have been expected to stop his attacker in his tracks. Not let him cut through cloth, into skin and muscle, like a hot knife sinking into butter without resistance.

Sam still struggled to know clearly what took place. The attack had happened in a blink of an eye, difficult to process, so that even now it hardly seemed real.

Except, Sam admitted grimly to himself, that the pain was real enough, throbbing along his side and abdomen in a constant reminder.

Thinking on his dad's displeasure he knew that lying there doing nothing was no longer an option. He had to get up, seek a way out this mess. It took him a long agonizing minute to swing himself up into a sitting position and by then he was drenched in sweat, his bangs dripping salt water into his eyes.

"Suck it up," Sam demanded of himself, ignoring how every muscle in his body seemed to be trembling with the effort. He couldn't afford to continue playing the victim. Especially not when whatever had taken him out so damn easily could be doing the same to his brother and dad.

**XXX**

Abel hated it when she found fault with him. He had tried his best, gotten her the fucking prize she had coveted, and still she wouldn't stop her bitching. "Look it ain't my fault woman. Like I said I wasn't expecting him to fight back like that."

"You near gutted my precious boy. He'd better heal up Abel. I'll not take kindly to that sweet young thing going the same way our Peter did."

"Stop yer fretting, I stitched him up tighter than a drum. Kid seems made out of strong stuff - he's not gonna up and die on ya anytime soon."

The woman frowned, her task forgotten as she lay down her ladle by the bubbling pot on the industrial sized stove, "He's a hunter's son, Abel. You know what that means? I need them gone if I'm gonna bind him to us."

Huffing out his annoyance Abel shifted his weight on the table to draw a long blade across the whetstone with a grating sound. "So I guess I've got me some fresh gutting to do, eh Maude?"

"They'll take him from us if you don't," warned the woman.

"Yep, guess they'll try at least, keep sniffing around like pesky blood hounds, looking for their young 'un."

"He's not theirs anymore," spat back Maude, pushing back a strand of stringy hair behind her ear as she took up stirring the pot again, "Just you make sure you finish it quick. My boy ain't ever going back with them. Not ever."

"Sure honey. Nice and quick. Like always."

She smiled serenely content that the pretty young boy would remain hers. As Abel got to leave she called after him, "Bring back their heads to show the boy that they ain't ever coming back, then I can brew up a binding potion with them afterwards."

"Maude, you know how messy that gets…"

Ignoring his whining at the new task she demanded, "And their hearts too. Hunters always make good eating …"

Abel nodded, fingering his necklace of bone and teeth that afforded him some powerful protection. "Hearts, heads, got it."

**XXX**

Dean wanted to scream out his frustration as he watched his dad up ahead scanning the ground for any signs of what had taken Sammy. The urge to shake him hard and demand how he, they, had let this happen was a growing panic inside of him.

Keeping Sam safe was the most important thing in their lives and yet they had left him behind for something to sneak up and take him away from under their noses. Now the only solid connection to his brother they had left was the bloodied jacket his dad had found. That as unpalatable a truth as it was, whatever had taken Sam had hurt him. Hurt him bad.

A growl escaped as his fingers curled into fists at the image of his brother lying bloodied on the ground. Alone, no doubt terrified, without him or his dad around to protect him.

"I'll find you little brother," Dean whispered out loud his determination. "I'll find you and make the sick sonofabitch regret ever laying a hand on you."

John drew himself up and looked back at Dean. He had heard his words and his heart echoed with the same purpose. "Son, we'll track him down. Sammy will be okay, I promise."

Nodding mutely Dean blinked away the sting of tears. He had to have faith in his dad's skills, had to believe they would get his baby brother back. Alive.

John went to walk on when his eyes caught a glint of white. Pushing the spongy grass aside he picked up a large animal canine tooth. A hole had been driven through the crown and he huffed out a loud exhale in recognition. It had been worn as a protective charm, no doubt worn by the thing that had spirited away his boy.

A triumphant smile lit up his craggy features at he offered the tooth to inspection to his oldest. It was their first real clue into understanding what had taken his boy.

**XXX**

**Vonnie**

It took him several minutes to make it from sitting to standing, the pain in his abdomen hampering his progress. By the time his feet were finally on solid ground, Sam felt like he was ready to go horizontal again. Crunching his teeth together, he turned, still holding on to the metal table. The movement caused him to gasp again, as a stabbing pain seemed to rip him apart. He took several deep calming breaths, while wrapping his left hand protectively around his stomach. Blinking to clear his vision, he looked around until his gaze fell upon the door approximately ten feet from his position.

"Okay, you can do this!" He encouraged himself.

Letting go of the table, he stumbled towards the exit like a sailor on shore leave, holding on to the door knob, when he finally reached his target. Turning again, he rested against the door, at the same time clinging to the handle to keep himself upright. His vision wavered in and out of focus, making him want to sit down, yet he knew, if he did, he wouldn't be able to get up again.

After standing for some endless minutes, he finally felt ready to go on. Trying the knob, he was surprised, when it turned without resistance. He moved around and held on to the frame, while slowly inching the door open. Expecting to find it leading to somewhere inside the house, he was elated to see a yard with several trees in front of him.

Time was of the essence, because one or both of his capturers could come and check on him any minute, especially if they remembered, they didn't lock the door. So Sam made his way to the first tree, taking only a second to lean against it before going on to the next. Only when he reached the outer perimeter of the property and with it an area of thick brush, did he allow himself to take a break.

Sliding down to the ground, he noticed the warm wetness running out from below the hand still pressed against his abdomen for the first time. Moving it away from his injured area, he pulled his shredded T-shirt up to inspect the damage. Most of the stitches, not very expertly placed in the first place, had popped out and the largest wound, a slice running from right below his left rib cage all the way to the top of his right pelvis bone was gaping in several areas, exposing muscle and continuously seeping dark red blood.

Not for the first time Sam wished Dean, or at least his dad was here. Either of them would know how to fix this. Alone as he was, he struggled out of the two layers of unbuttoned shirts, feeling weak and dizzy by the time he accomplished the task. Unable to continue right away, he took a few breaths, before he fought through the pain and threatening darkness to regain a sitting position. Tying the shirt around his abdomen, he pulled it as tight as possible and knotted it in front, unable to contain the moan that escaped him.

His mind becoming more scrambled, thinking almost impossible, he felt shivers of cold running through him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Dean's voice, telling him to stay warm and something about going into shock. Almost instinctively he reached for his second flannel shirt, attempting to pull it back on, yet found his body didn't seem to listen to his commands any longer.

Tears of pain, frustration and loneliness rolled down his cheeks as he curled up into a fetal position in an attempt to preserve what little warmth he had left. Unable of a clear thought, his mind fleeing to the one he always felt safe with.

"Dean, please…" his whispered sob only heard by the harsh wind taking away what little heat was left in is body, before he slipped into a state between unconscious and wakefulness.

**XXX**

Maude walked from the main house over to the building where they hid her treasure, the boy, who was going to replace her Peter.

Peter, he had been her son, the one, who was murdered by hunters; those bastards, who didn't care about her kind. They were a despicable brood that killed without mercy, because they didn't understand why her people couldn't live without human flesh, who made her and Abel the last of their tribe. After Peter's death, she thought she could never feel joy again. That was until tonight, when she laid eyes on the beautiful human child.

As he leaned against the black car, his wild mop of dark hair blown into his face by the wind, as his long fingers repeatedly moved the strands away from his eyes, revealing a set of the most gorgeous hazel eyes she seen in the longest time, she felt love in her heart again. The lost look on his face, the slight quiver of his lips, the way his body looked like a young foal not quite ready to become the stud it was destined to be, yet already showing all the signs, he was perfect to give her back what she lost so long ago. Instantly she knew, she needed to have him, her pleading finally convincing Abel to give in and get him for her.

If only he would have been faster with injecting the drug, but the long high jump was off just by a little and Abel couldn't reach the boy before the child turned towards him. Instantly in fight stance, he delivered several blows to her lover, knocking the syringe out of his hand and driving him back. It was beautiful to watch as he pulled a knife out of the back of his jeans and with one fluid motion swiped at Abel. Needing to defend himself the other pulled out his own dagger and brought it up and down, slicing the kid's stomach several times and in turn driving him back.

A scream of pain escaped the child's mouth, making her fear for his life. He collapsed onto his knees, pressing his hands against his wounded abdomen and giving Abel the chance to pick up the syringe and push the needle into the exposed neck. Pushing the drug into the vein, it took only a few seconds for the boy to loose consciousness and another few for Able to pick him up and jump to the safety of the forest surrounding the grave yard before the other two hunters returned.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by the sight of the open door before her.

"Abel, you stupid idiot!"

She cursed, taking the few steps inside, although she already knew it would be empty. Turning, she looked around until she noticed the trail of dark red drops leading into the brushes on the outskirts of the property. Without further delay she made her way over to it. It took her only a second to discover her boy curled up into a fetal position, shivering violently in the cold night air.

She sank to her knees beside the kid, uncurling his body without difficulty, his resistance meaning nothing against the surprising strength of her hands. Seeing the blood soaked shirt, she cursed again. Able was such an imbecile at times. He just didn't realize how fragile humans could be. She waited two hundred years to find a boy perfect enough to replace her Peter. It had been a long time, way too long and she just wouldn't be able to do it again.

Running her hand down his soft cheek, she saw the terror in the glassy eyes, heard the whimper escaping his pale lips and her bright purple eyes took on a softer glow.

"It's okay my sweet boy." She cooed, "You are mine now, Maude is going to take care of you!"

She pulled him up into her arms, feeling his fear and relishing it, absorbing it, feasting on it. She would turn him and teach him everything she knew. Abel, he was keeping the loneliness away, but he was really just a servant and not smart enough to ever be anything more. This human would be what Peter was supposed to be, until hunters took him from her. It was ironic, now she took the son of a hunter away from his family to make him her heir.

Feeling his body go slack, she picked him up without any effort, taking him to where he belonged now, her home.

**XXX**

**Tammi**

"Sonofabitch!"

That earned him a glare from John Winchester, but Dean didn't exactly care at that moment. At that moment his brother was missing, hurt, and might even be … _damn it_, he so wasn't finishing that thought!

"It's not as bad as it looks, Dean…"

That certainly earned his father a glare back but John Winchester seemed to be in a mode where he didn't notice – or maybe he just chose to ignore his eldest's first sign of petulance. But hell, without Sam here, _someone _had to backlash their father when he so understated something.

"Not that bad?" Oh and John got a wave of hands as if to emphasize that he was obviously full of shit! "Tell me, Dad, what part of not that bad is there? We are dealing with some sort of ghostly vampiric leech who stole Sam! Now tell me, how can any of this be _not that bad_, hmmm?"

John was used to Sam mouthing off, in fact, it was almost like Mary's father came to haunt him in his youngest, sticking a damn thorn in his side every chance he got. But Dean … well, John was not used to him having such fire, at least when it came to him. Oh sure, Dean had a mouth, could put the biggest badass to shame with just a look, but he rarely, if ever, went toe to toe with him. Until now.

"Calm down, son, they couldn't have gone far." Despite Dean's irate behavior, John was already going into hunting mode with a scan of his eyes to the ground for any signs of his son other than the bloody coat. Dean, still grumbling was heading around the car – a silent witness to the mysterious disappearance of Sam Winchester, swearing under his breath the entire time. Later they'd have to discuss this recent fall from obediance, but after Sam was safe and sound.

After they salted and burned the son of a bitch that dared touch his baby.

"Hey dad, I think I …" But before Dean could finish that sentence, the temperature took a sudden nosedive … and Dean took up flying and sailed over his head to land on the other side of the Impala.

"Dean!" The shotgun lifted to send a deadly spray of salt toward the ghostly apparition that appeared, for that split second, to be male.

The shotgun was held at the ready as he rushed toward his fallen boy (man John, your son is a man now) and dropped to his knees on ground that was just beginning to feel autumn's chill. Not yet covered in frost, it wouldn't be long before Jack Frost painted the graveyard in crystallized white – a serene view if they were here for any other purpose but to lay to rest a spirit that should have already passed on. But, judging from the fact that this uncorporeal form _stole _his son, it had learned how to cross into this side of solid.

"Dean are you…"

"Behind you!"

John barely had time to twist and fire as the spirit zeroed in on him. "Damn, Casper can materialize fast."

"Must mean we're close … "

"Or a threat…"

A look was cast between father and son before another blast echoed out as Dean lifted his weapon to fire a spray just over his father's shoulder.

"Come on, this way…"

Dean rolled with a groan to his feet, another round echoing out as John fired at that bastard before the Winchester men were racing between the headstones, the rifle blasts following their trek across the grave yard.

**XXX**

Fingers of pain tugged at his side, twisting and tugging torn flesh until Sam took notice enough to groan out a protest. And just when that muffled sound escaped past all too parched lips, a chill drifted over his brow in the form of long since dead fingers.

"Dea…."

His voice felt foreign on his own lips, sounded far off and distant, like he was listening to himself through someone else's ears … someone that was far enough away that he (the other he) was more of an annoying whisper. It was the darkness that lulled, that made promises tainted with relief – and it called to Sam in a way that nothing thus far had. At least until those frigid fingers brushed his brow once more, pushing strands of dark from his flesh with a whisper against his cheek that was more icy tendrils of evil than words.

"Don't worry baby, momma will make it all better…"

For a moment, just a split second in time where the pounding in his head made him forget where he was and why he was there, he forgot. Not just the hunt, not the fact that he was shivering and hurt; he forgot that he lost his mother before he ever had a chance to know her, that his father chased the elusiveness that was her killer, and that he and his brother were dragged into a life neither asked for … that often times he had to clean up the mess that a hunt left behind.

"Mom…?"

The cold came again, frigid tendrils that brushed his cheek, causing him to shudder as the cold seeped deep into his flesh, making him try and draw away from the icy touch. "Shhh, baby, momma's here…"

Hazels flew open with a gasp of surprise as well as pain as the cold became so intense his whole body shuddered and stiffened at the same time. "W-who … Dean?!" Sam was scrambling backward before he realized he was once more on that trolley. So intent on getting away from the overly attentive ghost, he reached the end before he realized it. With a look of surprise, and a wild wave of his hands, Sam hit the floor with a thud and a groan that damn near took consciousness once more.

The ghostly apparition wavered, flickered, then drifted close, causing the youngest Winchester to scramble away. "Get away from me!" He tried putting more fire in his voice than he felt, and hoped to God that his façade of strength was believable. But judging by the fact that she was still reaching out for him, those deathly cold hands brushing against already chilled flesh making Sam wince.

"Where's Dean?"

"Dean?" She flickered, wavered, and paused, her fingers barely grazing his brow where blood had crusted against his flesh from his run in with the other ghost. "Who is Dean?"

"My brother, you bitch! And when he finds you…"

The change was instantaneous … his very own Casper changing from maternal to deadly in a matter of seconds. "He is not taking you from me!"

Pain lanced up his arm as it was pulled from its socket in a rip that lifted him from the ground and sent him airborn across the room.

**XXX**

To be continued … and we absolutely ADORE reviews!!


	2. Chapter 2

This is a Round Robin story started over at CWESS (check us out!!) for our Halloween rendition of Supernatural – and why Sam doesn't like it.

Authors are: TammiTam, BlueEyedDemonLiz, Rozzy07, and Vonnie836 (appearing in that order from Chapter 1).

When the undead figures out a way to come to life, Dean has a problem with that … especially when the ghost chooses his little brother as a host!

Now would we start a story without some Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean?

Hey, the only things we own are the spelling mistakes! Kripke, you dog, you and the CW have full rights to the boys. Just don't mind us while we play awhile.

Hey, a special thanks to all of you who reviewed. I passed your awesome words on to the rest -- it was much appreciated!

**XXX**

**Liz**

Dean waved the EMF meter one last time over the outside of what must have been the tenth mausoleum he'd scanned for activity. Rough stone grazed against his fingertips as he lent a hand against the structure and then pushed himself off and away from it, growling his frustration in rough gravel tones. John glanced over at his son, sensing the raw anger which was growing inside Dean and threatening to explode out like a volcano.

"Nothing." Dean fumed stamping his numb feet on the ground against the bitter cold, although he didn't need to say it because the quiet EMF meter said more than enough.

John strode over to his son and removed the device from unwilling fingers. "We're not done yet." And with that he set off, heading towards a secluded part of the graveyard which had yet to been subjected to their increasingly desperate searching methods.

Dean followed on behind his dad, exhaustion and something more soul destroying weighing down heavily on his shoulders but his heart-rate suddenly picked up the moment he saw something moving in the distance in front of them. It was little more than a glimpse really, a spectral flash of brilliant white which only briefly caught the corner of his eye.

Dean squinted, straining to getting a better look as he realized that it was an orb, dancing and zigzagging in the chill air before disappearing into nothing. Dean blinked heavily then, wondering if it had even been real or whether tiredness truly was beginning to overwhelm him. But Dean knew better than to doubt his own two eyes, he'd seen enough weird shit in his life to rival any episode of "Twin Peaks" and he just knew the orb had to mean something important.

Dean darted forward, quickly overtaking his dad's quick pace and ignoring John's confused shout of his name, Dean ran to the spot where he had seen the orb. The orb had been hovering over a skewed gravestone, which appeared older than the ones standing around it and was badly damaged. The inscription was hard to read, the words faded from the passing of time and decades of standing sentry in all types of weather conditions. Dean lifted his hand and rubbed at the barely visible words, tracing the letters with his fingers and mouthing them in turn. "In loving memory of Peter Grenwell." Dean read aloud, feeling something akin to melancholy claw at his chest, "beloved son, died aged 16 years." There were more words on the gravestone, a date of death most likely but despite Dean's efforts to wipe away the accumulated years of grunge, the missing words remained illegible.

John crouched down by Dean's side and the EMF in his hand came to life, a static filled buzzing and a flicker of red lights which died away again almost as fast. They both glanced down at the now silent meter and then at the gravestone. Unspoken understanding passing between them, they stood quickly and hurried back towards the Impala.

**XXX**

"Aged sixteen years." Dean repeated to himself as he drew his lock-pick out of his pocket and fumbled momentarily to open the heavy wooden door. He really hoped the fact that Peter Grenwell was sixteen years old when he died and the fact his missing brother was sixteen didn't mean what he thought it might. Regardless, the whole thing was starting to leave a bad taste in Dean's mouth.

Once the door reluctantly creaked open Dean slipped inside and switching on his flashlight, he began to make his way through the deserted and darkened library building heading straight for the archive stacks which resided in the library's somewhat mouldy cobwebby basement.

John remained in the car, holding the tooth which they had found in the graveyard and leafing through his journal. Time passed, not much but long enough that John was growing anxious when the passenger door suddenly opened and Dean flopped bonelessly into the seat. His eyes were dark and his face tired but there was new light in the green orbs, which John picked up on instantly and smiled at the hope he saw reflected there. "So?" John pressed.

"So, Peter Grenwell died from a stab wound, October 30th 1868. His murderer was never found and..."

"October 30th?" John questioned. _Today's date._ The grim and highly unlikely accidental coincidence echoed through his brain.

"Yeah." Dean answered, his eyebrows drawing together. "The records showed he was stabbed in the heart, dad."

John tightened his grip on the animal tooth, feeling the sharp edge to it with the pad of his thumb. He held it out towards Dean. "You seen anything like this before?"

"It's a protection charm, isn't it?" Dean stared for a moment and then his mouth dropped open as realization dawned. "An Aswang protection charm."

John smiled and resisted the urge to ruffle Dean's hair. "Damn right. Been a long time since any Aswang crossed my path and this looks like it came from a Hexer."

Dean whistled. Hexers were rare, damn near extinct and one of the worst types of that particular supernatural breed. Aswang Hexers were half-human witches who delighted in torturing their victims before they ate their flesh. They cast spells which put objects under their victim's skin, usually needles or other types of vicious blade. Anything which would cause their victim pain and eventual death. Nothing pleased a Hexer more than watching their victim choke to death on bits of sharpened glass, driven into the flesh of their oesophagus. "You can kill them with an iron dagger, right, Dad?" Dean asked.

"An iron dagger to the heart." John confirmed with a nod.

"Peter Grenwell lived with his mother on Maple Avenue but I crossed-checked it with a modern street map and Maple Avenue is called Cooper Street now." Dean glanced down at his watch, not for the first time counting the hours that Sam had been missing. The need to be doing something, to be shooting or fighting or hammering his fist into some creature's face was growing increasingly difficult to ignore.

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" John revved the engine and the Impala roared into the night.

**XXX**

Sam woke to a world of pain and squeezed his eyes closed again in despair once he recognized exactly where he was. _Second verse, same as the first_. Cold metal trolley, small bare room.

There was a sniffle and he distinctly heard the soft sounds of weeping coming from somewhere in the room. Sam rolled his head to one side and saw the woman, Maude, crying as she stared back at him. "I didn't realize...You're dead." Sam whispered, stating the obvious but it was pretty much all his pain-addled brain could focus on.

"I've been dead a long time, child." Maude replied. "You made me hurt you. Please don't make me need to hurt you again." She said. "Peter will have a body, _your body_, he'll be whole and then I too will take a host. Then we'll be together, a family."

Sam groaned, pain dulling his concentration and threatening to drag him down once more into darkness, darkness which even now played a merry dance at the edges of his vision. "I have a family."

"Family." She hissed, outrage sharp on her tongue. "You hunters don't know the meaning of the word." The woman's voice rose to high levels and her ghostly image wavered in and out as though to emphasis her anger.

Sam struggled to lift himself up into a sitting position, he wasn't bound or drugged but the battered and beaten state of his body prevented him from moving easily and as he lifted his arm a bolt of ferocious pain shot through it and down the spasming muscles of his back. He bit back the scream which bubbled on his lips and sank back down. His face now pale and slick with a fine sheen of sweat.

Maude was at his side in an instant. Pressing her hand to his forehead in the universal language of motherly comfort. Sam cringed and closed his eyes. "I sent Abel to deal with your family. He's not entirely useless but I doubt he will have succeeded in his task. We can't afford to waste anymore time." She turned away from Sam and glanced with loving eyes towards a darkened corner of the room. Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat when out of the shadows emerged the ethereal image of a teenaged boy.

**XXX**

**Roz**

John walked with a confidence that belied the fear churning deep in his gut. He had to keep his game face on for Dean but deep down he was terrified that he had already failed him when it came to them saving his younger brother. He wanted to have hope, the faith that Sam would be okay but after so many hours gone logic told him that he was more than likely to find whatever was left of his body than the vibrantly alive teenager he had been so callous in leaving behind tonight.

The thought of his sensitive son in the hands of a Hexer made his blood run cold, his mind conjuring up images that made him swallow back bile. He had to keep himself in check, couldn't let Dean see what his fears truly were, or he'd risk losing him too. He had to let Dean have hope, have faith, when his own was flagging as reality kept making itself heard in his head. It had been hours since Sam was taken. Too many hours when he could have bled out or worse.

As they approached the solitary house at the end of Cooper Street, skillfully hidden from the main street by overgrown hedges and trees, John flagged with a clenched fist for a halt to their approach.

Turning around to his son he whispered, "Remember the plan Dean, shoot iron rounds to incapacitate if you can and then use your knife when you get up nice and personal."

Dean nodded; his eyes going wide on see dark stains on the concrete path leading up to the house. Blood. His baby brother's blood he guessed and he spat out. "I'm gonna kill the bastards who touched him. Fucking ripping their Hexie-freaking-Aswangy hearts out with my own two hands…."

"Get in line, Son," growled back John, his face reflecting his own anger as he turned back to assess the large house in the dim light. "You follow my mark Dean. I go in first, you guard the perimeter. If I find Sam I'll bring him out to you. I'll finish off the job after that. We clear here?"

"Yes, Sir, I understand," came back Dean's automatic reply, his voice flat disguising the scream inside of him for revenge. To pump a full clip of iron rounds into the first ugly he came across to make it suffer for touching his brother, before cutting its heart out.

"Make sure you do," warned John in return. As much as he wanted to go into the house with all guns blazing he didn't want both his sons to end up dead tonight. He hadn't remained alive all these years without keeping a clear head on his shoulders, no matter the emotions churning inside of him.

A flicker of movement caught his eye and he hunkered down behind an overgrown bush, pulling Dean down with him. He nodded in the direction of a moving figure, a hulk of a man, exiting the side of the building. He walked with a skilful ease that belied his bulk, silent in his footsteps, leaving hardly a trace on the grass.

Instantly John realized just how damn easy it must have been for the creature to sneak up on his unsuspecting youngest. An Aswang -- the half light revealing his true features, the human mask slipping and sliding away as his ungodly features rippled as he sniffed the air. A long lizard like tongue darted out and the creature stiffened, as if he could taste on his tongue their presence.

As the man-creature loped down the path towards them John drew in a steadying breath, the heavy weight of the iron knife in his hand a comfort. He looked towards Dean and whispered, "Go round to the back, and wait for me."

For a moment he saw a look of defiance open on Dean's face but it dissipated with nod of compliance as he made himself invisible, heading back into the shadows to make his way to the other side of the house.

John sighed his relief that Dean had followed his command. He wanted to be found, wanted to confront this fugly bastard that had touched his baby boy, but didn't want Dean to go head to head with it. Not till he had a chance to assess just how strong it was. Maybe hopefully take it down himself without putting his oldest in any danger.

Abruptly he shot up to his feet, and cocked a knowing look at the approaching Aswang, who made a startled jump backwards at the unexpected reveal. "Take it you're looking for me you ugly sonofabitch?"

A chuckle rose in a low rumble from the creature's throat, "I knew you were good, tracking me like this. Gonna make it an even more of a tasty treat when I eat your black hunters heart."

"Speaking of hearts…" growled back John in warning as the cocky creature raised a large fist to strike out at him. "You ready to lose yours?"

His answer was a screech that burned the air and John was left reeling as a meaty fist connected to the side of his head so fast it was but a blur of movement and instant pain.

John took the blow with a roll to the ground, seeing stars, surprised as just how quick the creature had been. Before he could get back up on his feet he was lifted up off the ground by a large hand clamped around his neck, crushing his windpipe, starving him of oxygen.

Instinct took over, knowing physically he couldn't match the raw power oozing from his attacker. Instead he leant forward and with a resounding smack smashed his forehead into its face, hearing the crack of bone with a grunt of satisfaction.

The creature howled at being on the unexpected receiving end of pain, grabbing at his shattered nose blindly, letting John dance away from his grip.

It was a mistake that John took full advantage of, snarling out his own warning, swinging his blade upwards in a vicious determined arc to plant it up to the hilt in the centre of the creature's chest.

A froth of dark liquid bubbled out with the strike and the Aswang mouthed a silent denial as he staggered backwards, in a disjointed jerk of limbs desperate to make it back to the house. To his Maude. To his family.

He only got another few steps before the iron blade worked its magic and he fell dead at John's feet.

John grunted out his satisfaction, pulling his knife is a sickening slurp from the dead creature's body. He kicked it for good measure when he straightened up, confident that the thing was destroyed. Vengeance felt good, revitalizing his need to get inside the house and finish off the job.

As he made his way to the back of the house John was left muttering a prayer, despite logic screaming in his head that his boy was already lost to him, that he'd walk out of the house with both Sam very much alive. That was after he had killed every single creature inside. Every creature that had dared tried to pull his family apart by threatening his baby boy.

**XXX**

**Vonnie**

The boy continued to slowly walk toward the trolley, or actually, he wasn't, it was more of a heavy limp than a walk. His frail looking body was hunched forward and he dragged his right leg behind him, the ankle dangling loosely from the joint. His hair was dark as Sam's and the shape of his face remarkably similar also. But what really made him look so much like the youngest Winchester, was the shape and color of his eyes. In opposition to his mother's strange violet coloration, his were hazel, changing from green to brown to blue in the flash of a moment.

Sam couldn't take his eyes of the ghost child, whose painful features seemed to beg from him for help. For a moment he was so pulled in by them that he sat up without feeling his own agony. Whatever the kid was now, it wasn't his fault and the hunter in training felt nothing but compassion for him.

"Peter!"

The whispered words from Maude brought him back into reality and at the same time reminded him of his injuries. Dizziness and pain hit him with all their might and pushed him back down onto the hard metal surface with not too gentle force. Darkness threatened to take over again, yet fighting against it with all of his Winchester stubbornness; he was able to keep it at bay. Instead he watched the almost unbelievable scene unfold before him.

With incredible gentleness, Maude pulled her son into her arms, stroking the stray hair out of his face and singing a strange, yet soothing lullaby to him. The teen spirit relaxed into her embrace and slowly his eyes slid closed and his features relaxed. Now void of any pain and anguish, he looked even younger.

Even after falling asleep, his mother rocked him, quietly talking to him. Due to his keen hearing, Sam was able to pick up her words, yet was unable to understand the meaning. The language was strange to him and had an almost hypnotic quality to it. After a while she looked up at Sam, the smile on her face almost making her appear pretty.

"He wasn't totally like us, his father was human, you know. He was my husband and for a long time, he didn't know what I was. He was never supposed to find out, yet I wasn't the only one that had secrets. He was a hunter and when he found out what I was, he called on his friends and together they took Peter and tortured him, before they slowly let him starve to death." She paused for a moment and a crazed smile appeared on her face, "I ripped him and his friends apart with my own hands, before I devoured them."

Her attention shifted back to the boy in her lap, who was now shivering and moaning in his sleep. Again she sang and talked to him in the soothing language, making him almost instantly relax into her embrace again.

"You know, my kin lives on and keeps their powers even after death, many times becoming even mightier in this twilight. There is no need for us to constrict ourselves with new bodies. We can live and rule forever in this ethereal realm. No longer though, as your people found a way to destroy us even after they already took our physical life. Oh horrid salt and burn, how do I wish they never found this evil way of destruction!"

Her hands left her son's limp body for a moment, as she lifted them in a gesture of desperation. Pulling herself back together, she went back to gently stroke Peter, then continued her speech, "The only reason I'm still here is because they didn't get Abel. He took my body and hid it. With my new powers allowed me to cloak him from them and he became my only companion." She sighed, looking back down at the sleeping boy.

In a strange way, Sam felt sorry for the supernatural creature and her half blood son. He long ago accepted that the supernatural world was not always as black and white as his father and Dean wanted him to believe.

"But what about your son?" He asked with honest interest, for the time being forgetting what the spirit had planned for him.

A sad smile played around her bloodless lips, giving her an almost human appearance and deepening the compassion the young Winchester felt for her.

"Peter is only half my blood; because of it even in death he can't regain his strength. He is condemned to be frail of body and sick of mind, tied to his rotting bones for all but a day every fortnight. Only if I can find him a new vessel, one that is young, strong and healthy and can return everything his father took away back to him, only then can he be whole again. You are the one I chose, the perfect vessel."

A chill ran down Sam's back and this time it wasn't because of his injury, as the reality of his situation returned with overwhelming power. Grasping for straws, he said, "But I'm not healthy, your friend injured me and I know I'm going to die."

Not really having to pretend, he let himself sink back onto the smooth metal surface, purposely giving into the pain and giving it voice in a loud moan.

"Child, you underestimate me! You are nowhere near dying. Damaged yes, but even though, you are still so much stronger than my poor Peter. Yet as soon as he inhabits your body, his power will return and he will be whole. Then he will heal the wounds and nothing can stop him."

Wrapping his arms around his body to keep himself from trembling, Sam lowered his voice to an almost whisper, sure he wouldn't be able to hide the fear in it otherwise. He was a Winchester and because of that, wasn't going to let this bitch see him fear her.

"What are you going to do to me?"

This time her smile was self satisfying and evil, "I will speak the words of the ritual and with the last word spoken, will make a crosscut right above your heart with the sacred dagger. This will allow my son to enter your body."

For the first time the gangly teenager noticed the richly engraved weapon lying beside him on the table. Maude obviously knew it couldn't cause her or her son any harm, otherwise she wouldn't have left it within easy reach of the youngest Winchester. Letting despair take over, he closed his eyes, silently speaking his brother's name in the hope Dean would hear him. Yet Sam wouldn't have been his father's son, if he would have allowed himself in dwelling in self pity. He was not going to let Maude and Peter take over his body.

Watching as the woman made her way over to him, carrying her still sleeping boy in her arms, he realized that this time his brother wouldn't show up in time for a last second rescue. Unable to sit up again, he rolled to his side and took a hold of the dagger. With tears rolling across his face and down onto the cold metal, he couldn't help the sob coming from his lips, "I'm sorry Dean!"

With a last deep breath he plunged the weapon into his chest. The horror on Maude's face and the angry curse coming from her mouth were the last things he saw and heard before he let the warm satisfaction of his high cost victory guide him into dark nothingness.

**XXX**

**Tammi**

Oh Dean followed orders, at least in part. He went around back and waited, John was, after all, his hero, and Dean never truly defied him. His whole life was spent being the good son, the one who excelled at everything John taught, who followed every order without question.

Except when it came to Sam.

Sam was his weakness, the one person that Dean would always drop everything for. Not that he wouldn't for dad either, but something happened to the boy of four when his baby brother was placed in his arms; and like it or not, there was no going back to that childhood innocence where his mother was always there to tuck him in, to keep him safe.

Dean knew damn well what lurked in the darkness – and it had Sam.

So Dean went around back – he just didn't wait there. Well, at least not longer than 30 seconds; probably the most patient he'd ever been when it came to protecting his brother. So after a quick pace back and forth (hey, dad never said how long he had to wait) Dean was getting out the lock pick and working on the ancient mechanism that seemed resilient to the Winchester charm.

But Dean wasn't a quitter, and no damn door was going to make him start now.

**XXX**

Maude let out a scream that was both fury and outrage as the sacred dagger drew blood … and not at the right time. Her scream roused Peter, but he was too weak to do anything more than stare uncomprehendingly as the boy they had taken to given him life lay on the trolley, his lifeblood seeping from a very mortal wound.

"Mother?"

She was quick in moving, quick in settling her darling son down to rush to the hunter's son, the one that would be her salvation.

"Oh you bad, bad child…" She murmured before laying icy hands on his chest. The chill that ran down her arms, into her hands, then to the dying boy beneath them lowered the temperature of the room as frozen tendrils seeped into the cut, sealing it, stopping the flow of blood before it was too late … before the boy died.

Not that what they were going to do wasn't going to be worse, but it was for the greater good – her greater good.

But the hunter's boy, Sam, he failed to move, even as his lifeblood ceased leaking, even as the wound he'd inflicted on himself had sealed shut with her frigid touch.

"Oh don't you die on me now, Hunter…." And the sacred dagger was raised and drawn across flesh that had once been warm and very much alive. But instead of leaking brilliantly red fluid from the wound, what seeped from dead flesh was crystalline and so blue it was nearly white. It sparkled and shone like melted gemstones as it leaked from lucid flesh toward the slightly parted lips of the dying boy hunter.

"Now, Sam, you will…." But the slam of the door behind her startled her, causing a spin, the fluid that dripped splattering as she turn to face a very pissed Winchester.

"Get your dirty, dead ass away from my brother…"

Maude glanced back at Sam, at the droplets of her lifeforce splattered on his cheek, his mouth – so close.

"Didn't you hear me?" And the cock of the rifle drew her attention. She knew what that was, she'd been hit with one before. It stung, and for several moments in her excruciatingly long existence, she'd failed to be. It was almost like death, a real death where she didn't come back to this cold emptiness. But all that would change once Peter took on the life of this hunter's boy.

Which is why she risked the pain of the rifle by turning to smear her gashed wrist across his parted lips. _Breathe, damn you! _It was the last conscious thought she had before the blast echoed her into nothingness.

**XXX**

**Liz**

Dean watched Maude's ghost dissipate, destroyed, in a bright burst of light and winding wisps of smoke as the iron round hit her in the chest. Her ethereal form had been blocking Sam from his view and now that she was gone the true horror of what had happened to his brother was revealed to him.

Sam was laid out flat on a metal trolley; blood soaked clothes clinging to his slender frame. _Blood_. Dean's brain caught on that one word and stayed there, _too much blood_. Sam was pale and limp on the trolley, his head tilted towards Dean and his grey-tinged features softened as though in sleep. Dean stayed stock-still like a statue, vision blurring as hot tears formed and the reality of the situation slowly froze him to the core.

Without warning a strong hand gripped Dean's shoulder, shaking him hard and Dean's teeth rattled in his head but his pale green eyes refused to budge, even one inch, from the sight of Sam's body.

"Dean? What?" John dropped his hand away, gasping in great lungfuls of air as he sagged heavily against the doorframe. His boys, one son seemingly catatonic and the other seemingly....No! John moved with a burst of new found strength and surged forward, covering the distance from the door to the trolley where his youngest lay in a heartbeat.

Sam looked exactly as though he had bled-out, to the point where crimson puddles had formed on the concrete floor from the blood which had seeped over the thin lip of the trolley. It was like a scene taken straight out of one of John's worst nightmares. He'd watched Mary burn and now he was staring down at the lifeless body of his boy.

It took several painfully long minutes for John to shake himself out of the waking stupor he was under and reach out a hand to touch Sam's blood dampened chest. John fought away a wave of nausea as he slowly rolled up the heavily sodden t-shirt covering his boy's broken body. It took even longer for John to absorb the fact that while Sam's torso was peppered with nasty bruising and shallow cuts as well as a poorly stitched wound across his stomach, there were no injuries John could find which could account for the amount of blood covering Sam.

Even as he stood there, dumbfounded, John's eye's widened further in mounting disbelief as he noticed Sam's ribcage rise. It was such a slight movement--barely any movement at all--that John hurried to put his large palm over Sam's heart, needing to feel as well as see Sam's chest as it shuddered and then rose again. Little by little the rising and falling continued, growing steadily stronger each time.

"Sam." John's voice sounded scratchy as he rasped his son's name. "Sammy." Repeating it like a mantra, a prayer to whomever the fuck was looking down on them from the heavens. John wasn't a man of faith, not since Mary. He found his strength in the trust he invested in himself and his sons but right at that moment he felt like he could gladly pledge an oath and strap on a fucking clerical collar if it meant he got to keep Sam.

The sound of his father's desperately hopeful voice had Dean moving and promptly Dean was standing right by his dad's side, almost forcibly moving John out of the way in his bid to get closer to his brother. "Sammy, come on, come on back." Dean pleaded as he stroked a hand across Sam's forehead, feeling Sam's skin warming beneath his fingertips and watching as a soft pink hue returned to his skin tone.

Sam's eyelids quivered and then opened to slits to reveal confused hazel eyes. "Where's my mother?" Sam asked and it was Sam's voice, _their Sam's voice,_ but not his words.

"Oh my God." Dean stuttered letting his hand drop away, "Sam."

**XXX**

Sam's eyes grew frantic as he stared up at the two tall strangers leaning over him. "Mother? Mother?" He begged brokenly, trying to lift himself up on weak arms. "Where is she? What have you done with her?"

John dove forwards and pinned Sam's wrists, holding his son down. "Dean. They didn't take Sam to kill him, they took him to use his body."

"He's possessed?" Dean gaped as his brother struggled futilely against John's iron grip.

"Dean, get my journal and some salt out of the duffel." Dean turned on his heels and stumbled across the room to the door where his dad had abandoned the duffel bag, hurriedly grabbing the items John had requested.

"Make a circle around us son." John used one arm to keep Sam restrained while his free hand flicked through the journal's pages. Turning page after page until he found the exorcism ritual reserved for spirit possessions. "Adjure te, spiritus nequissime, per Deum omnipotentem…" John felt Sam's struggles growing more frantic as the spirit possessing his son fought to stay. The air was icy to the point of feeling almost glacial, little clouds of vapour were puffed out from John's lips with every word he uttered.

But the frigid conditions did little to slow John Winchester; he continued to reel off the exorcism his words flowing into a steady stream. Sam's legs were kicking as though he was being flayed alive. When the exorcism finally came to an abrupt end, Sam's body jolted like an electric current had shot through him and then he sagged, eyes closing and his hands falling away from where his fingers had been digging into John's forearms.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered, eyes darting between Sam's still face and his father's anxious expression.

Time stood still for Dean as he watched his father put a hand to the artery in Sam's neck. The blatant relief, which erased the fear on John's face, seemed to tell Dean everything he needed to know. John didn't say anything; overwhelming emotions robbing him of the use of his tongue Dean guessed seeing as he himself felt much the same way. Instead his dad lent down and scooped Sam up from the trolley, not once letting his face show any signs of difficulty in lifting the strong muscular body which almost matched him in height. With a gruff nod in Dean's direction, John carried Sam out of the room.

**XXX**

**Roz**

It had been the longest of five days watching from the sidelines as Sam slowly recovered. Now the vicious wounds in his side were starting to heal over and the once vivid bruises were fading to just feint smudges on too pale skin.

For John Winchester it was a sign of victory that he had saved his child, although the stitches redone were still a painful reminder at how close he had come to losing him. Keeping infection at bay had been a battle but now they seemed to have turned the corner. It was enough to convince himself that his youngest son was well on the path to a full recovery, that all he needed now was for his oldest to see the same.

Dean for his part since the rescue had barely left his brother's side, hovering in an almost suffocating presence that left John more than a tad surprised that Sam hadn't started bitching about it yet. The one thing he had always trusted about his youngest son was his ability to verbalize his feelings. Having his big brother in mother-hen mode was bound to start rubbing him up the wrong way sooner rather than later. When that happened he knew that his youngest boy was well on the path to a full recovery.

Draining the last off his coffee John went to rinse out his mug in the sink when he heard the click of a door shutting and turned to see Dean walking towards him. He shook his head in worry as his oldest looked washed out, the dark stains under his eyelids and the stubble on his chin ageing him beyond his years.

John growled out a warning, "This has to stop, Son. Sam's on the mend and you need to take a time out from playing nursemaid to him. He'll never get back on his feet if you keep smothering him like this."

Dean eyed his father in return, "You don't get it, do you Dad? What happened to Sam in that room – it near enough destroyed him and you expect him to just bounce back and pretend none of it happened."

"Stop the dramatics. I know it was a close call here, but he's doing just fine now."

"Fine? How would you know how that kid is doing? You've barely said two words to my brother since he woke up. Hell, he's lucky if he gets you to spend a minute a day in the room with him, so how in the freaking hell do you know how he's really doing?"

"Knock it off, Dean. Sam doesn't need me hovering when he's got you babying him 24-7," snarled back John, knowing his son was right, that he had been avoiding spending time with his youngest.

It was his own guilt in abandoning him by the car, letting him get taken, that was still too much to want to deal, making it easier to let Dean continue to play the father to his youngest.

It had been the coward's way out; that much he could admit to himself. His youngest had the terrifying ability to see straight into the center of his being, weighing up the truth of something and judging him by it. It left him as a parent feeling vulnerable, a feeling he didn't like one little bit, and resisted being exposed to it whenever he could avoid it.

Finding his voice John countered the accusation, "As far as I can see that brother of yours is doing just fine."

"Jeez, Dad, fine isn't waking up with a silent scream on your lips, fighting down nightmare after freaking nightmare. Sam's too terrified to admit to them because he's more scared of you and what you might think of him than he ever was of those fucking monsters that near gutted him."

John sucked in breath, the anger rolling off of Dean beating at his walled defenses. "He just needs time, Dean. A month from now it's going to be like none of this will have happened. Sammy will be back to his usual bitching self and things will be back to how they've always been, him running us ragged wanting normal and kicking our asses when it doesn't happen."

Dean sank down onto a chair and cradled his head in his hands, his voice barely a whisper, "No, Dad, you're not listening. The fact is we lost Sam in that god awful place. We lost him, and I don't know how we can ever get him back whole again."

Confused John answered, "Sam just needs something to focus on other than himself."

Dean looked up at his father and put out a warning hand, "If you think dragging him off on another hunt is going to fix what's wrong with the kid then you really don't know him at all. Go talk to him, listen to what really happened in that room, and then come back and tell me he's going to be just peachy freaking 'fine'."

Still in denial John responded, "You're brother doesn't need me to hear what happened, I saw it with my own eyes. I know it was hard on the kid, but he will deal with this and move on as we always do…"

"Please, Dad, just for once go talk with Sammy. Make him feel that you really do give a damn about _him. _Don't let him think that he deserved to die because you think so little of him."

"He thinks that?" gasped out John, the stark realization that he had let his youngest down yet again by his absence hitting home, hard.

"Dad…." Dean paused, rubbing a weary hand over his mouth, blinking back tears, "He told me…Oh god… he did something…."

As a broken sob escaped from Dean, John clasped a hand on his oldest's shoulder, fighting down the panic pounding his chest, "What, Son, what did he tell you? What did he do?"

Green eyes swimming with tears Dean gasped out, "My brother picked up that bitches knife and stuck it in his own chest to stop from being possessed."

The color drained from John Winchester's face on hearing the admission that his own child had come close to killing himself. "No, Dean, no he wouldn't do that, not my baby boy..."

Dean continued, fisting away his tears with an angry admission, "He thought you would expect it of him. Sammy pushed the blade into the hilt, all because he was more scared of disappointing you than he was off those fuglies that had him. Now do you see how screwed up everything is, if my baby brother thinks he's better offing himself than ever daring to let you down again."

John felt his knees buckling; thankful that he could park his backside on the edge of the table to stop his fall.

His youngest had tried to kill himself. Had almost killed himself. Might have died, would have died, if that freaking ghost hadn't pushed her offspring into him, halting the damage done. The irony struck hard, that his child had tried to take his own life only to be saved by the very thing he had been trying to escape from.

Dean was right, everything was fucked up royally, but he just didn't know if he was emotionally equipped to deal with it and help his youngest in the process.

Slowly he pushed himself off the table, daring a glance at Dean only to flinch at seeing high expectation on his suddenly young again face. That he could be the father his brother needed him to be for once.

As he walked with leaden feet to the bedroom John silently prayed that his oldest child's faith in him wasn't going to be misplaced. That he wouldn't end up doing more harm than good, that he would be able to restore both his sons back to him.

As he opened the door and looked in, his mouth going dry at taking in the gangly form of his son battling against the throes of a nightmare.

Daring to approach, he sank down onto the lip of the mattress and instinctively drew his fingers to his son's sweat drenched locks. "Shush, Sammy, shush. Everything is going to be okay."

He wasn't prepared for the response from his youngest, how his body went rigid under his touch and his eyes flew open dark with fear.

"Sammy….it's okay. It's just me, Dad," crooned John gently, continuing to stroke the wet strands sticking to his son's scalp.

Warily Sam looked around the room, before glancing up at his dad, a frown marring his forehead as he asked, "Where's Dean?"

Masking his hurt at the rejection he felt, John answered, "Taking a break, Sam. I thought I'd take over for a while, if that's okay with you?"

A look of bewilderment flickered across Sam's face, and then a blush rose on his cheek on realizing whose hand was stroking his head. "It's okay sir, I don't need anything."

John lifted his hand away and dropped it into his lap with a sigh. Sam was shutting him out, a skill he realized sourly he had learned from himself. "Look, Son, all I want is for you to get better."

"I'm sorry," whispered back Sam, turning his head back into the pillow as a means of escape from the unexpected scrutiny he found himself with his dad.

"Sorry for what, Son?"

Realizing that he wasn't going to escape the inquisition he felt readying to explode from his dad, Sam was fighting against the throb in his side as his stitches pulled, struggled upwards onto his elbows, hating having to face his dad flat on his back, "You know, for getting caught, for failing you again. I guess you're right thinking that I'll never be good enough…couldn't do the simplest of things right."

Biting down on his tongue John took a long breath before answering, "None of this was your fault, Sam. I should have realized what we were really facing and never have left you on your own."

"It has to be me screwing up – after all those years of training I didn't even know he was there till he'd grabbed me. He was just so strong that no matter how much I fought him it just wasn't enough."

John's face went dark with anger at the memory of facing the monster that had dared slice open his son, "He was a filthy, evil monster that I'm glad I stuck him like a pig for what he did to you, Sammy."

Sam wilted on seeing his father's angry expression and whispered out a tired admission, "You killed him when I couldn't. Just like always, I wasn't enough and let you and Dean down. I just lived up to all the low expectations you have of me, right, Sir?"

John grabbed at his son's forearm and clenched it fiercely; remember in stark clarity what Dean had told him only minutes earlier. His child had come close to killing himself all because he had drummed such low worth into him. "Sam, what you faced, what you went through, well I'm still trying to get my head around it all. You survived when a lesser man wouldn't have. You've got to remember that, stop letting this eat away at you or you'll never get better."

Not used to such praise Sam hooked onto the negative behind his father's words, "I'm trying. I don't mean to hold you back."

"No Sammy, everything is on hold till I know you are well again. Nothing else matters. Not to me and certainly not your brother."

He watched the confusion in his son's way too expressive eyes and quickly confessed, "I swear I never ever wanted any of this to happen, for you to face this on your own and feel that any of it was your fault. You hear me, Son?"

John waited for an answer but his boy sunk back onto the bed with a weary exhale, retreating back into his shell and he knew that he was losing that chance of connection he had strived to reignite with his son and himself. A connection he had lost too many years ago to want to remember why or when.

A sigh of his own escaped as John fought against his desperate need to hug his boy and tell him just how much he his world revolved around him and his brother. At just how damned proud he was that he had survived despite his own father's fundamental mistakes as a hunter.

Head bowed he plucked up the courage to say, "Sammy, I know I seem like a hard-nosed sonofabitch at times, but the way we live, facing the things we do, I have to be. But that doesn't mean that I'm not your dad, first and foremost, please don't ever forget that. Don't ever think that I don't love you and Dean more than anything else in this sorry assed world we live in. You hear me kid?"

Darting a glance to his son when he got no response he smothered a desperate chuckle on realizing that his heartfelt confession had fallen on deaf ears. His youngest, face relaxed and seemingly pain free had fallen back asleep.

John felt his heart break a little more on seeing such youth and innocence still intact in his child, exposed in sleep that he kept guarded during the day. It was a gift he had almost lost a week ago. A gift Mary had given him and he hadn't treasured fully enough to keep protected from his own mistakes.

Shrugging off his boots he slipped onto the bed and pulled his sleeping boy into his arms, landing a gentle kiss on the crown of his head, "Love you kiddo."

The seconds ticked by and a few minutes later he heard rusty hinges squeaking as Dean shoved his head around the door, face falling open in astonishment at the sight of his dad hugging his sleeping and seemingly nightmare free brother to him.

"Dad?" he queried, wondering what had gone down between the two of them to have his dad showing such affection to his baby brother.

John smiled softly at his oldest and nodded to the other bed, "Go get some sleep, Dean. I've got this watch."

**Vonnie**

_Epilogue_

Three weeks passed since that fateful night in the graveyard. Sam felt like he was having deja vue. Sure, it wasn't the same graveyard this time, but it might as well, it felt just as dark and creepy as the other one. The night was just as windy and the air just as chilly, maybe even chillier, after all, winter was coming.

Overall things had gone pretty well during the last few weeks. He actually didn't have any arguments with his father, well at least no major ones. At first he really didn't feel up to it and later John acted so strangely understanding, that it took the fun out of any argument the youngest Winchester might have considered to start. And for all the whole three weeks neither John nor Dean went off on any hunts. That was until this morning, when his brother had gotten him up early and told him to pack supplies for the day because they were going out for a salt and burn.

The drive took almost nine hours and by the time the finally arrived at the town, it took them almost two hours to find the rural cemetery, where the remains of the spirit were buried.

Peeling himself out of the car, Sam was ready to wait by the car, after all, that was what he usually did, yet John surprised him by pressing a shotgun in his hands.

"We need you to keep watch, while Dean and I dig. The ground is starting to freeze and it will be a lot faster, if two of do it and your injuries are not ready to take the constant digging."

Excitement ripped through the young hunter, as he slowly realized the meaning of his father's words. Following behind the two older men, he decided, this time he wouldn't disappoint his dad. This was his chance to prove himself.

As soon as they arrived by the grave, Dean and John started in on their back breaking task, while Sam held the gun ready and slowly moved around, taking note of every noise and movement.

An hour the youngest son looked almost longingly at his father and brother, wishing he could share in their hard work in order to get warm. Even his coat did little to protect him from the biting wind, which picked up shortly after they started their tasks. So he was happy to hear shovels hit wood, because it meant they were almost finished. At almost the same time he felt the wind pick up even further and then the silhouettes of not one but two spirits appeared out of the dark nothingness. As they manifested more, he could tell they looked completely identical. As one of them whooshed down onto Dean, holding the older brother in a choke hold, and lifting him slightly up, the other grabbed on to John and threw the older man against a tree standing several yards away.

Having to make a split second decision, Sam raised the gun and aimed at the spirit that had Dean, hoping he would have time to get the other one before it got his father. Seeing the entity dissipate and his brother fall back onto the coffin, he allowed himself a glance to make sure Dean was okay.

"Go, I'm fine!" the other hunter waved him off, although still trying to get his breath, already back on his feet and shovel in his hand.

Without hesitation the younger man focused on the other spirit, who by now reached his father and lifted the limp man up in the air. Trying to aim, Sam realized he was not going to get a clear shot without hitting John. Instead, he ran towards the ghost, reaching into his pocket at the same time and pulling a small canister of salt out. Opening the lid as he went, he flung the contents at the specter. Not enough to disperse, yet certainly enough to weaken it, it let go of the tall man, who fell to the ground in a boneless heap. Wasting no more time, Sam brought the gun up and hit the spirit point blank, effectively dispelling it.

Taking a deep breath, the young man allowed himself to look back at his brother. Only when he saw Dean just finishing pouring gasoline over the remains and was lighting a match, did he turn back and sink down beside his unconscious father. He pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and lit it, giving him enough light to inspect the older man for any injuries. It took him but a second to find the bump on the back of his head, well marked by the moisture of blood. Turning John's limp body proved more difficult but finally he managed and was able to look at the injury.

Sam let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, "Doesn't look that bad, probably doesn't even need stitching." He said more for his own assurance than anyone else's.

His father seemed to take his words as a cue, as he started to stir at the exact moment. Moving his hand against the back of his head, he moaned, before opening his eyes.

"What happened?"

Sam smiled, grateful to see the other man awake, "There were two spirits, remember? One slammed you into a tree, trying to smash your head in, only your head was too hard. I'm not sure about the tree though."

As soon as the words were out, Sam couldn't believe that they just came out of him. He looked at John, whose eyes were wide open in disbelief, then heard a chuckle coming from Dean, who had walked up and obviously overheard him also.

Blushing, he stuttered, "I'm, ah…, I'm sorry…"

He didn't get any further, as the roaring laughter coming from his father interrupted him. Again holding his head, the older man finally stopped.

"Laughing is not the smartest thing, if you got your head slammed into a tree." He stated, then continued, "Sounds like Dean has been a bad influence on you kid, you sound way too much like your brother."

"I know I'm a great teacher and awesome big brother, ain't I?" Dean smirked.

Glad for the way John took his words, Sam relaxed a little, then added, "Sorry dad, that I didn't get the spirit before it threw you."

The oldest Winchester exchanged a glance with Dean, than made eye contact with his youngest.

"This wasn't your fault. You couldn't know we were dealing with twins. I should have known something was wrong, just by the amount of victims. At times there were three or four at a time, which would have been difficult for just one spirit. The grave marker said only Marcus Lucas Summertree and there were no records that indicated this was more than one person." He paused for a moment, before continuing, "Sam, you did good; you saved my life and you also saved your brother's. You kept your cool and did what was necessary. I am proud of you son."

The last words especially caught Sam completely off guard. How he thrived to hear them, yet he never really expected for John to ever say them. To hear them now made him forget about all the anger and disappointment he ever felt. He had Dean, who was beyond doubt the most awesome brother ever and now he also had a father, who was proud of him. Even if it didn't last forever, for now his world was complete.

_THE END_

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